Magic
by queer-space-mermaid
Summary: "We all want a bit of magic. But the cigarette smoke screens, the funhouse mirrors and silk curtains hanging over loaned beds, the vanishing greenery in our hands, it's all part of the act. Shallow magic. And it's not enough for you, Sirius. " Muggle!AU


**Warnings**: A lot of dark themes, including: suicidal ideation, self-harm, disordered eating, drug addiction, mental illness, depression, sex work, dubious consent, flashbacks to past child sexual abuse, murder, poverty etc.

**A/N**: Rewrite of a fic I posted a few years ago under a different penname.

Switching POV. Note second person POV is Sirius, third person POV is Remus.

* * *

"This world is just an illusion. As long as we hold that thought dear, they can't break us, they can't make us endure their reality, bleak and bloody as it is. Money, money, money, don't you buy into it. It'll bite you on the bottom." – Travers Goff,_ Saving Mr Banks_

* * *

We all want a bit of magic. But the cigarette smoke screens, the funhouse mirrors and silk curtains hanging over loaned beds, the vanishing greenery in our hands, it's all part of the act. Shallow magic. And it's not enough for you, Sirius. You still feel the grit of dirty money under your fingernails, and the grime of the bodies that shudder and sweat inside you, and the grey rubble of torn down dreams weighting your steps.

Turning tricks, you're like the magician, or maybe, the assistant with the distracting cleavage and sparkly dress. Yes, that's more like it. The magicians on this stage are the bosses. You're in Bellatrix's act, but there are others, all overseen by the big boss himself. Riddle. Fitting name for the enigmatic show runner.

When you first trade your week's rent for some magic beans, you're struck by panic, or maybe a moment of clarity. This is just another act. Not Bellatrix's gig, but still one of Riddle's operations. Only this time, you're not working to dazzle the masses. You're an audience member. That's the difference. For them, the magic is real. Almost.

Maybe it's enough, you tell yourself, and then it's firing and accelerating the sluggish blood in your veins, and your eyes are forced open to the world in glorious technicolour, and the music picks you up and dances and spins you around like a child. This is it, this is flying, this is magic. The crash leaves you cold and disorientated, but maybe it's just that the experience has sharpened your senses to perceive this shit sucking trash hole you live in.

The arrangement you have with Bellatrix has always been a means to an end, but now the end is no longer an impossibly distant tarmac shimmering in the heat of the hell you planned to escape. It's a seductively close door into instant bliss, and you'll go knocking every night you have off.

* * *

_Filthy, you're a filthy slut. He was right, you're filth, you're crazy, crazy, crazy._

He knows it by heart, this broken record, and shaking the little white bottle in his hand, Remus can hear the rattle, knows the pills are like earplugs that can muffle this shit. But they don't curb the gurgling sickness in his guts when the memories jump down his throat, or the tremble of his hands when they search out a razor. He found something that did once, but it might as well be a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He's got no job, nor friends to scab off. His parents are already broke from putting him through college and he's barely scraping by on his marks. He can't afford it. He needs to focus, just focus, and stop feeling so damn sorry for himself.

But it's hard when he knows his chances of decent employment are thinner than his bony arms, even if his grades were to miraculously pick up. It's hard when most of his conversations are arguments with his echo and the loneliness seeps icy into his skin. And every day goes round in circles, a hamster wheel of dragging himself out of bed, shoving pills down his face, scratching chicken scrawl lecture notes, wading through wet concrete texts, scrounging up some dinner and dropping back into bed.

So fuck everything, and fuck his self-respect and the disappointed look in his mother's eyes if she knew, and the guilt that still radiates off his father in their every interaction, fuck them all. When he gets the chance, he takes it, and maybe it makes this world, the _real_ world, even harder, but at least he's got another world to escape to now.

The gateway is a professor, with skin scarred, leathered from sun damage, crooked teeth, a buttoned-up overcoat, and a bag of books instead of the usual laptop case slung over his shoulder. He offers Remus private tutoring, and if Remus picks up on the insinuation, he doesn't show it. But he does turn up at the apartment in the dark without his textbooks and drinks the offered coffee and sits next to him on the couch. He doesn't shift away his knee when the hand slides over it, even when a voice that's not one of _those_ voices in his head screams, "No, not again!"

And before it goes further the man pulls stardust from thin air and Remus is so relieved, he could cry, and he can have as much as he wants as long as they snort it together and fuck, so why the fuck not? It should hurt when he's slammed onto the tiled floor, his side jabbed by the coffee table corner on the way down, but it doesn't. He's just happy and oh so hot. His stomach drops when his pants are yanked off, gripping calloused hands all too familiar, but it's okay because he feels great and alive and this world is so much better.

* * *

It wouldn't have been so bad if you'd come into the show from another family. If you were a regular recruit from the streets with little responsibility. You envy the drug runners with their motorbikes and leather jackets, the way they fly through the wind and hardly spend a day in the smokestacks before riding cross-country again. Sure, they have to perform hits sometimes too, but they don't have to puppet master like you would have had to do, if you hadn't run away from your responsibilities. This life is shit, but at least you don't take pleasure in ruining someone else's.

There's a bouncer in the club that waxes lyrical about moving out of the city and escaping the syndicate's grasp, but you know if there were a map that revealed Riddle's web of influence, it would show blood red lines like strangling lantana across the whole damn country. You say something to this effect when you two smoke out in the alley on coinciding breaks, and he runs an agitated hand through unruly black hair.

"Then we'll go overseas. Totally fresh start."

You roll your eyes so forcefully you're surprised they don't launch themselves out of your skull.

"Jobs? Visas?"

James brushes the cynical syllables from the air with a wave of his cigarette. "Details, details."

"The devil's in the details."

He shakes his head. "But in theory, if all that was in place, you'd go?"

"What are you, my boyfriend? Go yourself if you're so confident."

"S'what Firewhiskey girl said."

"Do you talk like this to everyone? Trying to get accomplices to run away with?"

"Nah, just the pretty ones," he winks, and you snort.

"And how many pretty ones are there?"

He shrugs. "Just you two. But I'm sure you'll come round."

You ward off the foolish hopes he's painted in your mind with another drag and hassle him about Firewhiskey, the bartender girl, who you both know already has a boyfriend. It's not exactly magic, illuminating the night with lighter flicks and weak sparks of inspiration, but it's certainly something, talking to James, about the only guy that doesn't look at you like dirt or an open candy box these days. He doesn't seem to need the magic like you do, it's like he's already got it. He must, to be able to smile with such a twinkle in his eyes and laugh so freely, even when the profanity tagged walls around him crowd claustrophobically and the highlight of his weeks is the shifts he shares with the indifferent bartender.

So when you knock on _that_ door, you knock alone – only one night, there's someone else there.

* * *

A shooting star pulls Remus out of orbit. For three months, Fen has invited Remus to his apartment a few times a week. But it's been almost two weeks with no text. Remus can't sleep not knowing when the next time will be, so he chances turning up and hoping Fen won't mind. But a man jams his way into the elevator with him, a man wearing a navy-blue hoodie, cargo pants and combat boots. He nods at Remus and leans past him to jab at Level 21. For just a moment, Remus is close enough to breathe the chemical, fruity hairspray scent clinging to the man's long black hair, see in high definition the stubble on his chin and the smudged eyeliner underscoring mercury eyes. There's a couple of studs glittering in the earlobe facing him, and a simple star tattoo peeking out from behind his curtain of hair, just above the collar bone. Then he pulls back, and Remus drops his gaze. The elevator pings softly at each level and Remus is so transfixed on his own feet that he forgets they're getting off on the same floor until they crash in their rush to get out.

"Sorry," Remus mumbles.

Star man smiles and keeps walking. But then he passes every door until stopping outside the last on the left, 166. Remus's hands clench in his pockets and he hangs in the middle of the hallway, caught between the magnetic pull of the room and the escape route beckoning him back out of the building.

_Stupid fuck, you weren't invited, stupid, you shouldn't have come._

The sound of the security chain clinking open makes Remus turn and stride madly back towards the elevator. The doors open mercifully quickly, and he steps in and leans against the mirrored side as they shut again. Panic laces his saliva with nauseating bile, and he hits the ground floor button viciously.

_I need it, what am I going to do, what am I going to do? Don't know, don't know, I need it. Shit, shit, shit._

He clutches the handrail as the descent waves through his stomach. He is back out on the street before he's even registered getting out of the elevator, and he can't leave, he can't. He needs it. He paces in the streetlight glow, teeth grinding, waiting, waiting. Who knows how long the star will be in there? Remus flicks his wrist band hard against his skin to block the thoughts of what they're doing up there. Two... three… Four… At 324 flicks, Remus's wrist is numb and raw, and thank fuck the foyer doors swing open.

* * *

The Diagon Alley clubs will be crowded and loud, and you'll drown yourself in the music, the magic current pulling you into bassline riptides. That was the plan. But as you push out of the foyer and onto the street, you see him, the guy from the elevator. Slim, pallid skin, sandy blonde hair, long-sleeved black shirt, jeans, volleys. Clutching at his wrist, body tensed, gaze pinned to the front doors. His eyes flick to you for a second before he pushes inside, and you watch through the glass until he's out of sight.

Just another addict. Delusional audience member, like you, like thousands of others. But your feet stay glued to the steps and you can't leave. He's so innocent looking, fragile like a teacup, and the thought of him in Fen's slimy clutches makes your skin crawl. You'll wait until he comes back down, that's all. Just to make sure he gets out okay.

Fifteen minutes later, and you wonder if maybe he's staying the night. _Please no_. But there's a whoosh of air behind you and he's burst out. Eyes wide, muttering furiously, he rakes his nails up and down his arms, jittery legs pacing back and forth along the front steps.

"Hey, you okay?" You ask, voice rough and fatigued.

He stops abruptly and looks at you, sucking in his bottom lip.

"Did he give you any?" he whispers.

"Um… yeah."

"Oh." He turns away and resumes his scratching, pacing routine. "Fuck, fuck –"

"Hey. Hey, what's your name?"

He keeps walking but seems to offer a reply.

"What was that?"

"Remus."

"Remus. I got a few…" You hesitantly pull out the little clip-seal bag, and it draws him in like water swirling towards a drain.

"Can I –? Oh. No, it's not the same." He drops down and sits on the top step. "He… he said there's a supply issue. Won't have any for at least a week."

You've had the company of some characters over the years, the rough, scummy, scheming, violent, crazy, but they were either all paying clients, or your colleagues and bosses. Why you would willing choose to sit next to this lunatic instead of hightailing it to the club like you planned is a mystery. Or maybe you've finally just lost it.

"Sure you don't want this, though? It's good."

He shakes his head, snapping a black wrist band over and over.

"So, ah, I'm Sirius, by the way."

"I'm sure you are, I still don't want it," he mutters in frustration.

"No, I mean, that's my name. Sirius, like the star."

His head shoots up and he gives a surprised smile that lights up the gloom better than James and his cigarettes. "You're a star. Just like I thought!" He laughs.

A grin jumps to your lips. "You thought I was a star?"

"Yeah," he says, brushing a finger at the top of your chest, making your skin prickle.

"Oh. The tat."

He nods, then looks back down at his hands, smile evaporating.

"Um, do you live around here? I can walk you home."

You mentally slap yourself for sounding like such a creep, sighing when he shifts away.

"Sorry. Just… can't stay here all night."

"So go. I'm not stopping you."

"Right… Will you be alright?"

"Yep."

"Okay." You stand reluctantly, the night air suddenly cold around you. "'Night, Remus."

"'Night, Sirius."

Walking away, it feels like you're missing your wallet, or keys, or phone, something vitally important, but you force yourself not to turn back. You crawl alone into bed instead of the clubs that night, packet of magic in your pocket forgotten.

* * *

Sleep is stilted, but there seems to be a common thread running through Remus's dreams over the next week. Bright smile. Silver eyes. A warm, glowing star. Between that, the mad itch in his veins, and the taunting in his head, it's no wonder Remus doesn't make it to classes, doesn't have time to eat. It's too much. There are a dozen unanswered messages from his mother on his phone, but a distinct lack of correspondence from Fen. The pill bottle on his side table is too far to reach.

Day is tipping into the first hours of night when Remus leaps out of bed. The sheets ripple like snakes, the hisses following him down the dorm hallway. Even on the street he's not safe. The cars harbour monsters, the cracks in the footpath are ravines, and everywhere he goes, the eyes watch. The universe is reduced to the few feet of space surrounding him as he pushes down endless streets, heart hammering. _Nowhere to go, no escape_.

Hours and hours pass, and his breathing is ragged. There are too many people on this street, a seething, suffocating crowd, all snarling at him. Remus ditches the neon lights and runs into an alley. He presses himself into a wall, trying to quiet his breathing and blend into the dark, because they're coming, they'll _find_ him. But he's too late, they've heard. A shadowy figure lunges.

* * *

"Hey! Remus, shit, stop it!"

He's shoving you back, screaming, eyes glazed and terrified.

"Hey! It's me, Sirius! Remember?" You hold up your palms placatingly and he blinks.

"The star?"

"Yeah. What's the matter?"

He whips his face towards the busy street, teeth gritted. "They're coming."

"Who?"

"All of them."

"Okay. Do you want to come inside with me?"

He chews his lip, gaze still flitting around the alleyway. You hold out your hand, and he grabs it like a lifebuoy. You exhale in relief as he lets you lead him through one of the back doors. The dressing rooms are quite busy, but you find him a free seat and pull out your phone. James turns up a few minutes later.

"I know you just got off shift," you say.

"Buuut?"

"I was hoping you could do me a favour."

"Of what nature?"

"I need you to… look after my friend for a few hours. I've got a few jobs tonight."

"Your friend is this guy?"

"Yeah. He…" You lean in, voice low. "I think he's on something. I just need you to make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

"Yeah, okay. Sleeping's for mere mortals, anyway."

"Thanks. Remus, this is my friend James. Can you stay with him for a little while?"

Remus draws his legs to his chest. "Where are you going?"

"I'm working. I'll be back before you know it, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

The walls are swirling masses of spots, stripes, feathers, sequins. Girls, like painted fairies, flit in and out, and the floor ripples like the ocean, so it's lucky their feet don't touch the ground, lucky the chair he's curled up on floats. Eventually, the shimmering goes down, and Remus can look properly at the man Sirius left him with. Glasses framing brown eyes, crooked smile, ACDC t-shirt. He's rolling a couple of blue marbles in his hand.

"Remus, right?"

Remus nods, accepting the marbles James holds out.

"Where am I?"

"The finest strip club in all of Knockturn Alley, Remus, Black Star."

"Star?"

"Yeah."

"Does Sirius own it?"

James's smile deflates a little and he leans onto the back legs of the chair. "Ah, no. His cousin does, though. They're all named after stars, apparently."

"Where's Sirius?"

"Working. He'll be back soon."

The marbles click together as Remus shakes them around his fist.

"So, Remus. Are you from around here?"

"Mm. Gryffindor College."

"Oh, cool! Firewhiskey goes there too. What are you studying?"

"B.A. in English."

"Nice. Do you know Firewhiskey? She's doing teaching, second year. She's got amazing red hair, and sparkly green eyes, and she's wicked smart, wins tonnes of awards."

Remus's lips twitch. "Yeah, I think I've seen her around."

James looks ridiculously pleased about this, and he swings his chair back excitedly.

_Crash._

"Ow."

Remus laughs and pulls James up. James jumps to his feet and rights the chair, combing his hair back into place with his fingers. "Thanks. Wanna play Blackjack?"

* * *

Trust Bellatrix to book you Nott tonight. You leave Malfoy Towers wincing, fingers crossed there are no last-minute bookings. It's only a few hundred meters, but you're walking on legs too flimsy to carry your body, and it takes twice as long as it should. The club is almost cleared as you stumble into the back. James puts his cards down on the dressing table and stands.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine." Even though there seems to be a blackness hanging on the edge of your vision and you could really, really do with some fucking magic right about now. Remus turns around and he looks better, though tired.

"You winning?"

He smiles and shrugs.

"Yeah, he is," James grins.

You head to the shower and let them finish their game. You resurface better than usual tonight, small blessings. Half past four, James has gone home and you're on the second round of Crazy Eights with Remus. He yawns as you play your card and you regard him cautiously.

"Do you wanna go home soon?"

He throws his card down. "Not really."

"How come?"

He gives a short laugh and snaps his wristband. "I… I can't… Do you have any?"

Your fingers shrink back from the deck. "Not what you get."

"But something?"

"Yeah. A couple."

"I can't pay, but-"

"No, it's okay. It's just, they're back at my place."

He folds his hands on the table and tilts his head, almost meeting your gaze, screwing his lips to one side. "Can we go?"

_Don't take home lost puppies, Sirius_, Bellatrix's voice echoes._ There's a reason their owners abandoned them._

"Okay."

* * *

He's smooshed face first into a soft cushion, legs hanging off the armrest. With one eye pressed into the couch, Remus traces the floor left to right, over the carpet, across metal bar stool legs and up the adjacent white wall. He doesn't recognise any of it, but the realisation isn't as frightening as it should be. He sits up, yawning, a blanket bunching around his legs. It's a small space, a lounge room running parallel to a kitchen, separated by a breakfast bar. The microwave on the counter opposite reads _12.18_. Remus extricates himself and slides off the couch and over to the window. Peeling back the curtain, he's confronted with the brown brick exterior of the apartment opposite, and about twenty storeys below lies a narrow alley, strewn with garbage bags.

Back out of the lounge room and into a hallway, there's a front door straight ahead, two closed doors on the left. The first is a bathroom, Remus finds, when he comes face to face with his reflection. Violaceous, drooping skin under blank eyes, hair ruffled and unwashed, frame surely even narrower than the last time he encountered a mirror, and he doesn't want to see this. He shuts it away and opens the next door.

_The star_. "Sirius?"

* * *

"Hey. Hey, Sirius wake up."

You scramble upright, blinking rapidly to sharpen the blurry face hanging in front of yours into clarity.

"Oh, Remus. 'Morning."

He backs off and gingerly climbs onto the foot of the bed, folding his legs underneath him. "Good afternoon, actually. So, ah, what happened?"

You smooth the doona made taut by his weight over your outstretched legs, toes shrinking back, suddenly self-conscious. No one comes in your bedroom, ever.

"Sirius?"

You look up with a half-smile at his confused expression. "You fell asleep before I could get the packet."

"Oh. Sorry."

"S'okay. I was tired too."

"Are you working today?"

"Nah," you lean into the headboard and breathe deeply, hand fishing for the cigarette box on the bedside table. "Don't work days. And Monday's my night off, fortunately." You shake out a couple of fags and offer him one.

He takes it hesitantly, leaning in so you can light it. He looks younger up close. Eyes amber like sweet honey.

"You?"

"Don't work," he says, sucking experimentally. "Studying."

"Ah."

He coughs and pulls the cigarette from his teeth, face crinkling as he stubs it out on the ash tray you hold out. "That's gross. Honestly."

You snigger and take one last drag before reluctantly following suit. "You get used to it. Can get used to anything, given enough time, really. What do you study, anyway?"

"English at Gryffindor."

"Oh, James's girl goes there."

"Firewhiskey?"

"Yeah, I'm sure he already told you all about her."

Remus smiles, walking his fingers over the loose threads on the doona cover. "Yeah. I don't think he actually knows her real name."

"Nah, she won't tell him."

Remus laughs. "And they're dating?"

"He wishes. Hey, do you know her actual name?"

"Lily, I think."

"Lily! Oh, she's gonna be pissed."

You both giggle. "I think she's already got a boyfriend, actually."

You sober a little. "Mm, we know. Still, he holds out hope that she'll 'see the light'". You air-quote, then stretch your arms overhead in a yawn. Surprise flutters in your belly when you open your eyes to see him staring at the base of your singlet, riding up.

"Um," you cross your arms, and his gaze drops. "Hungry? I mean, for food. Breakfast. Or maybe lunch. I think I've got something edible in the fridge. Or there's a 7-Eleven down the road."

He doesn't look up, instead shifting his legs off the bed. "I think I should go."

"Remus, wait."

You follow him out of the room.

"What?"

"You, um…" you tug at your hair, pulling threads of anxiety to the fore. "You don't know your way around. Let me walk you to the subway, at least."

He sighs. "Okay."

Then all too soon, you're standing at the mouth of the subway and the crowds flow in crashing currents in and out, threatening to separate you before you've said goodbye. You grab his sleeve and pull him to the side.

"Will you be okay to get home?" you yell over the city cacophony.

He nods. "Thank you. For last night. And the time before that, too."

For some reason, your face is too unstable a foundation on which to plant a smile right now. "No problem."

He drifts back, but your fingers catch on his wrist. "Remus?"

"Yeah?"

"You can come see me again. Whenever."

He freezes for a second, eyes widening fractionally. "Thanks… I –" you can't hear, it's too loud here, but you watch his lips. "I think I might."

Then he turns and your hands drop. He's swept down and you grip your elbows as the day darkens.

* * *

Remus is buzzing when he gets back to the dorm, maybe from the full seven hours of sleep he's just enjoyed, or Sirius's offer, but either way, he makes like a bee and gets busy. Strips the sheets from his bed and stuffs them in a bag along with the dirty clothes strewn on the floor. Clears and reorganises his desk, separating random papers into subject folders and stacking his textbooks in order of thickness. Showers and brushes his teeth. Changes the bin bag. The place feels lighter already.

The little white bottle sits patiently on his bedside table and he approaches it begrudgingly. Before voices can persuade him otherwise, he unscrews the cap and shakes a couple of pills into his cupped palm. He'll take a few days at least to stabilise, so the sooner, the better. He tips them down without water, sticking out his tongue in disgust as they press through his oesophagus. He slings the laundry bag over his shoulder, humming as he opens the door. The phone in his pocket gives an answering buzz.

_2nite 9.30_

Remus clenches the ignorant device as his chest tightens. _Tonight_. He can get some tonight. But there are so many hours to hurdle in the interim, how can he jump the clock? The laundry seems like a pointless weight on his shoulders now, but it's something to do. He all but runs to the downstairs laundromat, as if time will race after him. On the contrary, it only seems to drag its feet in retaliation, seconds trickling by like wet sand through the hourglass until he's finally bent face-first over the coffee table.

It's cold in here, he must think aloud, because Fen pushes him full of heat, saying, "You'll warm up soon, snow angel."

And he shouldn't need to do this, because didn't Remus pay in advance last week? But he won't stop now, he's already buried deep. Remus's face hangs over the edge, crushed snowflakes thawing and dripping off his nose.

* * *

"It's not like that," you protest, pinned to the sofa by Bellatrix's suspicious gaze.

"What is it like?"

"I told you. We're friends."

"I see." Bellatrix sidles up to you. You turn away as her overwhelming perfume invades your nostrils, but she grasps under your chin with acrylic talons and forces your attention. "And you would tell me otherwise?"

You stare into the black depths, windows to the soul indeed, and nod with difficulty. She releases you slowly, scratching the skin lightly as she goes. Then she looks back down at her phone, humming tunelessly. Your eyes flick to the screen and your heart clenches tighter than your curled fists. A video plays of you and Remus walking onto the Gryffindor college grounds, shoulders brushing as you round into the entrance.

"What the fuck?" you hiss.

"Shhh, this is my favourite part coming up."

"You fucking –!"

Bellatrix pauses the video and smiles at you icily. "Careful, cousin." You see her heavies hover closer in the doorway to her office, and you grit your teeth.

"What do you want?"

Bellatrix's smile grows wide and toothy as she lifts a finger to twirl in your hair, and you flinch. "I want you to be safe and happy, of course. I want you to be honest with me. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

"Who's going to get hurt?"

She brushes your hair over your ear, gaze intent on ensuring the strands are tucked just so. "Nobody, if I have any say. It's just, these vicious streets, Sirius. They're filled with strays."

She drops her hand into her lap and regains eye contact, concerned expression almost believable. "Strays that are dirty, unvaccinated, starving. We don't bring home lost puppies, do we now? They're unpredictable, dangerous. If we want a pet, we look for purebreds from a reputable source. Do we understand each other?"

You swallow her slimy words and nod.

"Lovely. Now go dress and pretty up, darling." She stands and pulls you to your feet by the elbow. "Nott's paying full price for the privilege of your delightful presence in half an hour."

* * *

There must still be a beating hope in his cocaine heart. Because he took up Sirius's invitation. Because he takes his meds every day that he can stretch that far. And when the college gives him notice to move out because he's failed every subject and refuses to repeat, he doesn't leave via the ten-storey high window.

He moves his stuff back into his parents' place, and sticks around as much as he can bear, but their despair is suffocating. Worse is the blame they hurl desperately at everyone but Remus himself.

"The school should have offered more support!"

"I should have stood up to my boss, visited more often."

"How can they do this? He's _sick_."

Sick indeed, and deaf too, apparently.

_You've fucked up now. Fuck up. Stupid slut, fucking everything._

His parents talk about him, the voices talk to him, but Sirius talks with him.

Sirius, Sirius, Sirius. Sometimes he can't tell whether the stardust that pumps through his blood, pulling him through to the next day comes from the drugs or his star. He doesn't go without either long enough to find out.

* * *

Mascara runs down your little bambi eyes, and aren't you just pathetically adorable? What is it this time, did they hurt your feelings? Bellatrix has neglected to line up clients for you for the last two weeks, trying to freeze you out, punish you for daring to fraternise with a man she doesn't approve of. Street walking is less profitable, riskier, dirtier, but suck it up, that's what you're paid for. The clients are bad enough, the pigs are worse.

You should be able to handle it. Heaven knows you've bled and bruised before, but you can't get up this time. The chill of the bathroom tiles grounds your bare feet, and you press your back into the glass shower screen, hugging your legs like you can hold it together. But you can't, it comes gushing dirty from your eyes and nose and mouth, disgusting sobs and shudders and tears. Your sides split with mutated laughter as you choke on your own salty effluent, and doesn't that feel familiar? And you better stop raking at your face like that, it's your last precious commodity. The pretty powder cakes under your nails and your eyes sting from the smudging, but you want it off regardless. Or you think that's what you want. You don't know what you want. Except for it to stop. You just want it to stop.

_And for my next act, ladies and gentlemen, I'll make myself disappear._

* * *

The front door isn't even shut, let alone locked. Remus pushes into the unlit hallway and closes it behind him, nudging his shoes off out of habit.

"Sirius?"

No answer. Remus peeks into the bedroom. Empty. A cry from the bathroom slices jagged through the silence and Remus yanks open the door.

* * *

"Hey, hey."

You can't tear your eyes from your lap, nails scraping and scrubbing single-mindedly over your face. It's so sticky, you're _always_ sticky, filthy all over, your pores clogged with it, and you can't _breathe_. But he grabs your hands and holds them tight. You shake from the epicentre in your chest, violent tremors diffusing through his ribcage as he wraps you in his arms.

"Shush. Shhh…"

It's so loud in your head, but you can hear his soothing murmurs. So dark behind your blotted eyelashes, but you can see his light hair in your left peripheral vision, downy against your cheek. Feel the circular patterns of his palms flat on your back, the rocking side to side, his breath against your ear. And you cling tightly around his neck, following the constant flow of air in and out of his chest until you're almost in sync, save for your accented gasps and gulps. _Hush_, _hush_, in and out like the tide.

It's quieter now, quiet enough for you to decipher his soft words. Singing. _Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are…_

You bury your face in his shirt and laugh, the sound muffled and watery. He keeps on with the rhyme, stroking through your hair until you pull back to look at him.

"You've got a nice voice," you croak.

He breathes a laugh and moves his hands down your arms. "I take requests."

You drop your head, lips pulling upwards unexpectedly and sniff, wiping your face across your shoulder. Remus draws to the side and stretches to grab the toilet roll off its holder. He rips off a few squares and hands them over, and you turn away to blow your nose properly.

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

"I must look fucking awful."

"No, you don't."

You are an ugly crier, and you know it. You flick away the paper and pick at your nails, not saying anything. Remus stands and opens the cabinet over the sink, but you don't look up until he sits beside you again and extracts a handful of make-up wipes from the packet. You nod, but don't take them, don't move as he gently starts wiping away the powder and dried tears.

You stare stricken into his face as he holds and cleans yours. _Beautiful_. And you realise then that this "falling" in love cliché is all bullshit. You're not falling. You're _flying_. He's pulling you up out of the murky depths with each little kink of his lips, each brush of his thumb against your skin, each centimetre between you that he closes. The epiphany razes the darkness, blazingly bright as his eyes.

He runs a shower and gets you a towel and some fresh clothes. You go through the motions in a mute trance, until he's tucking you in.

"Good night."

"Wait!" You catch his hand and sit up.

"Yeah? Do you want some water or something?"

"Um. Yeah, thanks."

You let him slip away and he brings back a glass. You take a small sip and set it on the bedside table. "Remus."

"Mm?"

You force a deep breath. "Don't go."

He stills in front of you. "What?"

You swallow the block in your throat and reach out. He doesn't pull back when you find his hands. "Please."

"You… stay with you?" he rasps.

You nod, tightening your threaded fingers. His mouth opens and closes, eyes flicking to his feet, then back up and he sucks in a breath. "Just – just for tonight?"

"If you want… or longer."

His bites his bottom lip and nods. "Okay."

You pull him back onto the bed and both of you climb under the doona. You lie on your sides, facing each other, and you slowly drape an arm over his shoulder, scared he'll change his mind at any second. He doesn't yet, brushing his hand up your back, so warm, even through the fabric of your singlet, resting it finally in your hair. You don't want to sleep, you want to study the curves of his face in the dark until your eyes lose focus, but all thoughts of this resolution blank out when he dips forward and kisses you fleetingly.

"'Night, Sirius," he breathes, so close you can taste him in the air.

You press forward the last few separating millimetres, smile extending through your whole body, right to the tips of your toes. "'Night, Remus."

* * *

Cuts as thin as thread streak over his face. Up close, they blur together like thick ribbon strips. Remus pushes up on his elbow, head perched on his hand. Sirius is already awake.

"Hey," he murmurs, and Remus smiles shyly.

"Hey."

Sirius rolls onto his stomach and groans, kneading the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just –" Sirius folds his arms over the pillow and lays his head back down, scanning Remus's face. "No."

Remus lets his arm fall, laying parallel. "What's up?"

"I'm… It's just…" Sirius sighs as his gaze drops to the mattress. "I'm so sick of it."

"Of what?"

"Everything."

"Oh."

Remus's fingers spider their way over the pillow to hook with Sirius's. Intense silver brightens for a second as a smile slips over Sirius's lips, and Remus feels that same bolt of mesmerising wonder that he did last night when Sirius asked him to stay.

"Not you, Remus. I could never be sick of you. But everything else… I can't do it anymore."

Remus nods, throat tight. This is where he's supposed to say something to make it better. But what can make it better? Nothing anyone has ever said to Remus ever stopped him feeling like that. The only things that did and do are Sirius and drugs, and Sirius already has both of those.

"I'm sorry," he croaks.

Sirius strokes across Remus's wrist with his thumb. "I don't know what to do."

"Sirius, don't –" Remus squeezes their hands and inhales shakily. "Please don't… I couldn't take it."

"What am I supposed to do?" The desperation in his voice cuts cold and deep and Remus shakes his head frantically.

"I don't know, but you can't… Not that. Please don't leave me, Sirius. Please."

_Pathetic, useless slut. Needy, pathetic _–

Sirius rolls onto his side and snakes one arm underneath Remus, one over the top, hugging him close.

"I won't, okay?" he whispers. "I won't, I'll… I'll work something out, I promise."

* * *

You need to disappear. Another night shedding skin around a pole like a serpent, rupturing internally with pounding regularity, shuddering under the creepy crawl of eyes following you home, and you might break a promise.

Remus. You haven't told him yet what you realised that night. He certainly hasn't said anything of the sort, but he doesn't need to. He sticks with his few days on, few days off routine of visiting, with occasionally longer absences, the only change being that you now share the bed. It feels like its own promise. You notice things now that you didn't before…

Drifting in and out, the warmth of the heating day lumps over you, entreating you to _sss_leep some more. You curl into his side, squinting a little just to catch a glimpse of his peaceful face for reassurance, but instead, he's frowning, fixated on the phone in his hand.

"You okay?"

He starts and places the phone on the side table, nodding.

"Your parents again?"

"Mhmm."

You feel the vibration through the sheet as he snaps his wrist band under the covers, not looking at you.

"What's wrong?"

"I said it was nothing," he bites, and then there's only cold empty bed beside you. He pockets his phone and stalks out of the room, and you hear the slap of feet on tiles until the front door slams.

The next time you see the phone out, you close your eyes and nestle closer.

…

He's sitting on the couch when you stagger inside one early morning, and doesn't respond when you speak, eyes not even flickering when you pass. You crouch beside him.

"Remus?"

He's suspended perfectly still, glassy amber unblinking.

"Cut it out, you're scaring me." You shake his arm and nothing changes. "Hey, I mean it!"

You grip his shoulders vice-like. "Hey!"

He jumps back, banging his head into the wall, then scrambles to the other armrest. "No, no, no –"

"It's okay," you breathe. "It's okay."

He shakes his head furiously, litany incessant, and pushes you away when you reach out. You chew the inside of your mouth, running a hand through your hair. There's nothing for it but to wait, so you cross your legs and sit next to the couch, burning eyes fixed on his fitful form. Hours later, it's died down enough for you to fear that he'll slip into that catatonic state again.

"Hey, Remus?" you try wearily.

He chews a nail, eyes sliding over to you. "I… I need –"

"What?"

"Medication."

"Is it here?"

He nods, switching to a different nail. "Jacket."

There's a white bottle labelled _Abilify_ in his jacket pocket, slung over the barstool, and you scan the prescription label quickly. One tablet with water. You unscrew the cap and shake it out, fill a glass and bring it over to him. He takes the pill with a sip, then folds his arms around his legs, resting his forehead on his knees.

"Do you want –?"

"No."

The glass is heavy in your hand and you place it on the floor. "Okay."

The bed beckons, but Remus isn't moving, so what the hell, it's not like you don't spend enough time in bed as it is. You lay supine on the carpet, arm over your eyes to block the sunlight leaking through the window. You don't know if you actually sleep or not, but when you raise your head again, Remus has crashed, so you consider it a win.

* * *

James pushes a plate of sandwiches into your hands, ham and cheese, it looks like. Cut the crusts off and everything. "Eat," he orders, and you roll your eyes.

"Thanks, mum."

"I mean it. Eat it all, or so help me, I will ground you for a month."

You reluctantly nibble at a square for his benefit, careful not to let any crumbs stray onto the sofa.

"Good. Now…"

"Now."

"So, you, ah," James cleans the lenses of his glasses on his black Metallica shirt intently, "you guys are…?"

"What?"

"Together?" he slides his glasses back on, a nervous smile kinking his lips.

You laugh, startled, and scrub a hand through your hair. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we are."

"You don't know?"

"No. No, I do know, now that you mention it."

He grins and leans over to clap you on the knee. "That's awesome!"

You smile, playing with your hands. "Yeah… And, um, Lily?"

James's eyes light up. "She gave me her number at the end of the shift!"

"No way!"

You both laugh, and the fact that this has been the first meal you've eaten for three days slips your mind momentarily.

* * *

There it goes. Cerise blotting in the water and circling around, around, and down the drain. _Bye bye_. He clutches his arm, forcing steady breaths through his nose, cleansing the nasal passages with large doses of humidity.

Wrist band snap snaps.

He's with Sirius, high off his love. He shouldn't need anything else._ Nothing else, nothing else…_ He rests his head against the perspiring glass. _Fuck_.

* * *

"Sirius?"

You turn to face Remus, who's curled up on the couch. "Yeah?"

Remus shifts onto his back and peers at you through half-lidded eyes.

"When's the last time you slept?" you ask, his white-washed face and the purple bags under his eyes making you uneasy.

He smiles wryly. "Ah… yesterday. A few hours when you were at work, I think."

"Hmm." You pull one of his hands free of his hoodie pocket and trace the palm lines with your thumb. "You should probably rest a bit more."

"Can't."

You crawl to lie beside him. "Would this help?"

"Maybe."

You wrap him in your arms and he flinches. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"James is coming over soon. He's getting Chinese to share."

Remus sniffs and rolls into your side. Up close, his eyes are all you can see as they flick over your face, and they're so hopelessly sad that you can't stand it. You kiss the tip of his nose, then travel up the bridge, making him squint as you pepper across his eyes, and he laughs softly. His eyes sparkle when you give it up and pull back slightly, and there, that's much better. But it dwindles quickly. "Sirius, I… I don't want to use. But I really _do_."

The admission snags on your chest and you squeeze him tighter as you take a deep breath. "How long has it been?"

"Four days."

"How long do you usually go?"

"Four is the longest."

"Okay."

You rub his shoulder with your knuckles and chew your lip. He's looking at you like you've got all the answers, and you want to have all of the answers for him. And maybe you do know something, since you haven't used for a couple of months now.

"What does it feel like, to be on it?" you ask.

"Um… it's like… it makes me happy. Really happy. And more awake. And it doesn't last long, but… I don't know."

You nod. "And, ah, how do you feel right now?"

He closes his eyes and breathes deliberately. "Yeah. Not so crash hot."

Staring at him, something clicks over in your head, a neuron connection formed, an idea blossoming for a way to make it better, just for now. And how you _loathe_ your job, you hate it with a passion, so badly you wanted to _die_, but this is _not_ the same thing, it's different, because it's something you want, and Bellatrix isn't hanging over your shoulder, and this is _Remus_. You love Remus. And you are _together_, after all.

You unravel your arms from around his torso and prop yourself up, and he opens his eyes. You smile and slide a hand up his chest, brushing over the creases in the fabric, up his warm neck, prickly cheek. "Do you want a _distraction_?" You don't even have to try, your voice dips husky automatically, you're well-practiced, after all. But no, it's not like that, focus on the _now_.

"Like what?"

"Anything you want." You hover closer to his face, lips ghosting, and you anchor yourself to the feel of his hot breath, indelible scent, blooming skin. It's _Remus_. One hand cups his jaw, one grips his waist, and you wait.

* * *

Remus's heart charges out of control – _almost like, almost like_ – and hot blood – _is this why you didn't get rid of it all?_ – floods his face, chest, lower, pooling where Sirius is closest. A spike of lust shoots through him as Sirius licks his lips, and _he wants that_, so he reaches up and pulls Sirius down, and somehow, Sirius's mouth tastes different now, better, and _oh_, it's because of his tongue.

Then Sirius shifts and suddenly his whole body is touching Remus's, and his thoughts don't consist of words anymore. There's only waves of heat and want and touch touch _touch_. Flashes of red in front of his eyes. Hands under his clothes, over his skin, more, more, flashes of red. Lips drag over his neck, and he can't breathe, but he can touch, and he can look, so he cranes to see the star on Sirius's collarbone, and traces it with his thumb slow, hard. Moans reverberate against his ear, flashes of red. Hand press, run down, down, flash red, under – _no_.

Remus shoves him off and scrambles off the couch. _Fucking slut, dirty, fucking love it, slut – _Red flashes, that's all he can see. Red, red everywhere, how it stained his clothes, matted his hair, ravaged his skin, puddles and rivers of it, and didn't it look good, smell good, feel good, to stab it out in spurts like streams from a firefighter's hose? All over the bed, and these stains made it to the mattress, soaked right through, no scrubbing off the evidence this time. _Take that, eat that bitch, who's the clever one now? _And it kept coming, gushing, he must have hit a major artery on his fourth or fifth or tenth go, and it's red deeper and darker than he even knew existed, almost _black_. Good, he thought he was ugly black underneath all that suntanned skin, saccharine smiles, now everyone can see, he bleeds black, fucking black.

_Remus… _What? Remus shakes his head, blinking, he's dead, it must be the voices, but he guts him again with the blade, twice for good measure. _Fuck you. Never again…_ _Remus. Remus, Remus, Remus_. And it doesn't make sense, he didn't call him that when they were alone, why would he start now, when it's too late, when his mouth is full of blood instead of the usual bullshit? _Stop_. No, he won't stop, he can't stop, don't touch, don't touch, get off –

"GET OFF!"

"I'm off! Just stop! Stop! You're okay."

He is shaking, rattling bones, clattering teeth. There's no red here, just cream carpet, brown coffee table topped with mugs orange and yellow. The sofa is brown and his clothes are black, but… his hoodie sleeves are pushed up, bunched above his elbow, and _there's_ some red. Weeping forearms, trickling now, but he could make it gush, he doesn't even need a knife –

"Stop it! Please. Just breathe, Remus, it's okay, I love you –"

_It's okay, it's okay, I love you,_ he said that too, every time. Remus scrapes up and down his arms, and it comes faster, flowing –

"Stop, fucking stop!" And someone grabs his arms, oh, he remembers how this goes, they've come for him. He struggles to break free, the hands slippery, but tight. He screams and wrestles, and soon, he knows, they'll inject him and he'll collapse and wake up tied up, somewhere he'll learn to hate white more than red.

"It's his fault!" he screams. "Let me go! I don't want to go!"

Why haven't they injected him already? Why is there only one?

There's a shout and a slamming door and here's another one, it must be the one with the needle, and he cries, face shoved into the ground. There's talking, words fast and high-pitched, and the hissing, and he doesn't know… he doesn't know what's going on. What's going on?

_It's okay…_

* * *

_Lay where you're layin'_

_Don't make a sound_

_I know they're watchin', they're watchin'_

_All the commotion_

_Kiddie like play_

_Has people talkin', they're talkin'_

_Sex on Fire_, Kings of Leon

James should be doing this; he's stronger and more used to manhandling with his job. You should be on the phone because you know what happened and should be better able to answer their questions. But you don't know what happened. And your vocal chords gave out with the last "stop". All that exists is James – "ambulance" – crouched beside you, and Remus – "I don't like, I don't, don't like it, I don't like it –" crying and wriggling beneath you.

When they arrive, they burst through your bubble with efficient footsteps, sharp orders, a clinking stretcher bed. They move you off and lift him up, and he's not fighting anymore, limp like a celery left too long in the crisper. You're coming with him, but are you family? No. So you're not coming with him. Don't make him go by himself, let me come, please, please. Holding the stretcher rail all the way down. But the doors slam and the sirens blare, flashing red and blue down the smoggy street, and you're not with him.

When you're back in the flat, you see his jacket hanging by the front door. You pull his phone from the pocket and swipe the screen, tap the missed call from _Mom_ and call back before you've remembered that you can't speak.

Two rings, then – "Remus, sweetie, are you okay? You said you'd be home this morning."

You swallow, breathe, swallow.

"Remus?"

"I'm his friend," you croak.

"Oh. Is he with you?"

"He was, but something happened. He's been taken to hospital."

"Oh my god. What happened? Is he alright?!"

"I don't know, he just sort of… freaked out."

You don't know which hospital, so she says she'll find out and call when she does, before hanging up. The phone stays pressed to your ear until the last beep.

There's an unread text hanging on the screen and you tap it. _Midnight_.

No name, but there's a long trail of previous texts from the same number. All relaying times. Spread a few days apart.

You slide down the wall, staring. Place the phone on the floor in front of you. Press your knuckles into your mouth and bite hard, corking the screams building in your chest. Squeeze your eyes shut and see red.

…

Three o'clock, the veritable Witching Hour. You're standing by the vending machines opposite the elevators on the first floor. James hasn't said anything, or maybe he has, but you haven't heard. Fucking hospital rules, you know he wants a cigarette, hands twitching for the pack in his pocket. You should tell him to go wait outside for you, but you don't say anything.

Ten minutes late, she emerges out of the steel elevator doors, harrowed face, hair in a messy bun, hazel eyes distant. Her name is Hope. No, you can't see Remus. He's been sedated, transferred from general Emergency to the psych ward. You don't want to shoot the messenger, especially not this one, who looks so shockingly familiar, but you can't help the snarled – "For fuck's sake!" that escapes. Hope doesn't react, just asks for his phone back, so you hold it out instead of smashing it to plastic splinters against one of these sanitised white walls. She puts it in her handbag, and you shove your hands in your jacket, turning to acquaint yourself with the selection of sodas on offer, while she and James exchange numbers.

…

"Calm down."

"Why? Why should I calm down?"

"Sirius…"

"I'm serious. What's the fucking point? I'll never be allowed to see him. Never, do you get that? Never, never, never!" You punctuate each word with a kick to an empty beer bottle, but it's not enough so you pick it up and hurl it at the ground and the smash is marginally more satisfying.

"You might be able to."

You seek out another bottle, morning light beginning to illuminate the parking lot.

"Come on. Let's go home and work out a way to –"

"And even if I can… even if I can get him out of here, I don't know what… how to look after him. I don't what's wrong. I don't know fucking anything."

"If he takes his meds, shouldn't that… shouldn't he be okay?"

"I don't know." You rub your eyes harshly and stop walking. You don't know where you're going.

James puts a hand on your shoulder and tugs you back towards the car. "Come on. We'll work it out. Let's go."

* * *

His pointer finger traces under the words in time with his muttering, despite the fact that he can't read. The story comes easily though, because the pictures on the page dance in his head and he's narrated these adventures so many times before.

"Don't read in the car, sweetie, you'll get a headache." His mother regards him briefly in the rear vision mirror.

"Okay," Remus replies, but he doesn't shut the book. It's only a ten-minute drive. And it's raining, gloomy grey drizzling outside, pattering on the roof. He flies to Neverland with Peter in the sunshine and doesn't look up again, even as they pull into the driveway.

…

Mummy and Daddy are too busy to read to him, and since he doesn't go to day care anymore, he guesses that he'll have to do it by himself from now on. But Uncle Rolf likes books too. His little house is full of them. Books in the lounge room and kitchen and bedroom and even the bathroom.

Uncle promises to read to Remus before naptime, and sits him atop the kitchen counter with a heavy cookbook while he chops a salad for lunch. Remus leafs through the glossy pages of cookies and slices and muffins, oh my. It's his birthday soon and he flicks eagerly to the cake section. A little too eagerly, because he turns a page and there's suddenly a sharp sting on his fingertip. "Ow!"

Uncle Rolf puts down the knife and looks up, concerned. "Paper cut?"

Remus looks down. Just a tiny cut. Just a little fishing line-thin strip of red. He doesn't want to look like a baby, but he sniffs a bit, because it does hurt.

"It's okay." Uncle Rolf gently holds his finger. Brings it to his lips and kisses it. "All better."

…

He arrives in the early morning and leaves in the late afternoon. They bake and watch cartoons and play and read. Uncle has a book of fairy tales bigger than the Bible in church, with gold embossed pages and illustrations prettier than any of those in Remus's tattered collection.

They sit in a mountain of pillows propped against the headboard, covers around their legs if it's chilly, and take turns choosing which tale to read before naptime. Remus's favourite is the Three Little Pigs, and Uncle's is Little Red Riding Hood.

…

Remus is very well-behaved, just like Mummy tells him to be each morning she drops him off. Soon, he will go to school, and Uncle is teaching him to read. He will be very clever and make lots of friends.

He sits in Uncle's lap, hand held as he points to each word in turn, corrections hushed against his ear.

Remus doesn't want to go to sleep, he wants to keep reading, and he is too big for naptime, but Uncle says he won't grow up big and strong if he doesn't sleep. Pushed down gently, shhh, go to sleep, stroke against his cheek, blankets over them both, rubbing up and down his body and Remus doesn't know what's going on.

"It's okay."

…

He hasn't wet the bed since he was a baby and his eyes sting hot, because he's not a baby.

Uncle doesn't get angry, just strips the sheets and says they should get clean. He won't tell Remus's Mummy and Daddy, he promises. The tiles are gleaming white, nothing special, but Remus stares at them as intently as he would one of the fairy tale illustrations as water and soap suds and big hands wash him, wash him all away.

…

When he goes to school, he is very clever, but he doesn't have lots of friends. He goes to the library during recess, then to the sick bay. Mrs Pomfrey is almost like a friend, but she gets annoyed when he comes in too often, so she's probably not a friend.

…

He walks to Uncle's after school and Mummy picks him up on her way home from work. Remus has home readers and they are not nearly as interesting as the fairy tales, so Uncle always lets him read one after the homework is done, sitting on the couch.

Uncle is his friend, Uncle thinks he's clever, Uncle loves him, he says so.

"Do you love me too?"

"Yes."

And afterwards, Remus clutches his stomach, watching TV without seeing it. Uncle gives him chocolate to feel better and Remus eats it and maybe he does feel better.

…

When he's in high school, he starts to hear them. Like something in aural periphery, then louder, but no more distinct. A radio channel not properly tuned. They find clarity in the dark of his bedroom, competing to be heard over the shrieks of his parents behind the wall.

But they say bad things. Hiss to each other like Remus isn't there. And he is so angry that they are ignoring him like everybody else. "Fuck you all," he grits out.

They laugh. _You wish_, _slut_. And Remus regrets ever replying because now he can't sleep, they won't shut up.

…

It's very dark sometimes and at times like these, Remus is persuadable. He goes along with the voices, stringing him along like mesmerising lanterns in the blackness. If his mother noticed him, cared about him more than work and money money money, she might say, "Honestly, Remus, if they told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?"

They haven't asked that of him yet, but it wouldn't be a far stretch.

Uncle notices the scars ordinarily hidden and tsks. But they are not so ugly as to deter him and Remus curses the voices for not pushing him further. They only taunt him – _soon, soon_.

…

He's fourteen. His mother calls down Uncle's hallway and gets no response. She's had a long day, Remus, she's already beeped the horn twice, now you've made her come in. Doors open and close and she huffs.

The bedroom doorknob clicks. Remus is in the bedroom. They all are. He is Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf and the Huntsman all at once.

* * *

It's the gaps and spaces that distinguish the place. The phantom weight around his wrist. The blank white walls. The blue light spilling through the bedroom door kept cricked open a fraction. The cavernous silence where voices used to echo. Vacant eyes in the mirror and the other patients' faces. And the gaping hollow deep in his chest, inexplicably star shaped, as if dug out with a serrated cookie cutter.

All patients are on sharps watch for the first week, so no pencils, no paintbrushes and certainly no scissors for him, confining his recreation time to crayon and finger-painting based pursuits. It's a _real_ blow.

They want to know what triggered the attack. McKinnon's put down her notebook and pen, angling on the couch opposite in what is supposedly a supportive, open way, surely reaping the rewards of the body language unit covered in her Psych101 class. Remus shrugs. Has he been on any _drugs_ recently? They apparently jabbed him sufficiently during admission to know exactly what he's been on and detect several STIs, so it's really the same question again in different packaging. There are motivational posters on the walls, pretty hardbacks on the bookshelves. A tad more sophisticated than the cartoon pictures and soft toys Remus remembers.

His eyes flicker back to the notebook on her knees. Was she horrified or pleased to get assigned his (basket) case? His lips quirk at the internal pun and McKinnon beams, perhaps thinking he's responded to something she's said. Pleased, then; he's probably an exciting change from the usual anorexic and mental breakdown patients that pass through. He scrapes a thumb nail between his canine teeth, transfixed by her ruby red polished nails as they fiddle with the spiral spine of her notebook. This has been a productive chat. They'll talk again tomorrow, and he'll see the doctor this afternoon.

…

Three days. His first stint was much longer, but this is practically self-indulgent considering he's only been committed for having an episode. Regardless, this translates to an 'expensive exercise' for his parents. He probably could have been released yesterday. He doesn't even have the voices to blame; the heavy meds he's on stamped them out pretty quickly. He doesn't know why he did it, but whatever the reason, he's restrained for a couple of hours now. What he wouldn't give for a fucking line. Or some contraband shoelaces. Or that stupid clickity pen McKinnon tapped against her leg as she patiently waited for some answers. About his recent _acquaintances_. The one he was with when he suffered the _attack_. Come now, Remus. We need to know as much information as possible so we can work through this. The man you were with. What is his name? He'd only stared. Her pen had scraped scritchy scratchy on the paper, transcribing a lot of ellipses, probably.

He couldn't really remember what she'd said before her book went flying. Just the shock in her wide, blue eyes, and the sting of his thumb nail, torn and hanging by the cuticle.

…

"That's very pretty, dear."

He doesn't look up. The black crayon rolls over the page as he switches to a yellow one. There are bits of colour gritty under his nails, the plaster on his thumb smudged.

"Your psychiatrist told me what happened in your session this morning. I know it's hard, but it's important that we know. Your…friend. What was his name, dear?"

Remus's grip falters and the yellow slips out of the lines. Scrunching paper would be a satisfying sound, or tearing, _riiip_-ing this failure up into fluttering, cascading confetti.

"I met him the night you were admitted."

Hovering a breath over the page.

"Long hair? Black boots? He seemed a bit…agitated."

The crayon falls into the inverted book spine.

"Remus, darling. Did he hurt you?"

_Touch, red, kiss, red, red_, _RED_ –"No."

"Well, that's good." Hope searches his face, hands skimming over the table, palms down, almost reaching the crayon congregation. "It's just… Your father and I have been so worried lately, when you keep disappearing, and they told us that you had traces of...Well, we're not angry with you, you don't have to be worried. And when you get home, hopefully tomorrow, we're going to take better care of you. Maybe see about changing your dosage… and I'll take time off work so you're not left alone. How does that sound?"

He eyes the band holding Hope's hair in a bun, brushing the plaster in a circle around his naked wrist.

"Remus, dear?"

Hot air rushing from a balloon. "What do you want from me?"

Frown lines, confused amber eyes, drooping, purple pouches. "What do you mean? I just want you to be happy and healthy –"

"That's not going to happen. Listen to me, mom. I'm never going to _get better_, okay? I'm never going to be _happy and healthy_. Never."

Hope purses her lips, shaking her head. "Don't say that, Remus."

"No, it's the truth."

"I know things are difficult, but you need to try –"

"You think I don't try? You think I don't try so, _so_ hard to be normal every day of my fucking life?"

"Remus! Calm down, before the nurses –"

"They don't care, they're used to crazy, like you should be."

"You're not crazy, Remus, please –"

He pushes away from the table, but Hope catches his arm as he stands, rings digging cold into his skin, her watery eyes barely dammed by rapid blinking.

"I'm sorry," he monotones. "I'm sorry I'm a disappointing schizo that always fucks everything up. But you're more deluded than me if you think that's ever going to change."

He shakes off her grappling hands, protests washing benignly at his back as he leaves the room.

* * *

It's the first time you've been to James's apartment, and though it's as small as your own, it is noticeably warmer and full of life, like the man himself. The furniture is eclectic, there's a spice rack in the kitchen, and there are photos everywhere, of family and friends and pets. There's even one of you and James, a selfie taken at the Three Broomsticks nightclub, stuck to the fridge with a pair of magnets.

James offers to keep you company, but you decline, sleeping reluctantly, fitfully on the pull-out sofa. You toss and turn, trapped in a nightmare, whether asleep or awake. If only you could afford to move away, to breathe fresh air, to support Remus. Trying to claw your way out of the poverty prison is like scrambling up a mountain of slippery shale. Your attempts to find footing only tangle you in traps, fastening a ball and chain to each ankle; debt and incarceration.

You awake proper to the smell of green tea and toast. Your mouth is dry and ashy, and you grope for cancer fuel, even as you heave and cough. At the sight of fiery locks and freckles, you stop short. "Fire- Lily? What are you doing here?"

Lily smirks and sets her plate down on the kitchen bench. "I was invited, don't worry."

"Right," you smile, embarrassed.

Lily motions for you to take a stool, like she owns the place, and maybe it comes as second nature, given her experience in directing drunks and partygoers. She plops a jug of juice and a cup in front of you for good measure. The leather of the seat sticks to your thighs, and you realise belatedly that you're not wearing pants. Neither is Lily though, so you suppose you should lean into the absurdity.

"James says your friend is in hospital?" Lily munches on her toast, eyeing you expectantly.

You nod, swallowing dryly. The anger which had pulsated in your chest and screamed through your veins last night has made way for a heavy guilt in the pit of your stomach. You are the reason he was taken away.

"How are you holding up?"

You sigh, unsure why this stranger cares. Probably, she feels the need to fill the awkward void of silence, given she's been confronted with a half-naked man in her boyfriend's kitchen. "Where's James?"

"He's still sleeping."

"Right. Well, tell him I said thanks for all his help."

"Tell him yourself," Lily counters. "Why are you leaving already?"

"I've got work."

"Nah you don't. You work nights."

"Well, I've got other shit to do." You pour a cup of juice and take a quick swig, barely quenching the painful thirst that claws at your throat.

"I've got another idea." Lily swallows her last mouthful quickly, before taking her plate up and tipping her crusts into the trash.

You trail back into the lounge, rifling under the sheets to retrieve your clothes.

"Yes, good. Get dressed. We're going out."

You throw your arms up and shake your head. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You'll see! Be right back, I'm going to let James know. Oh, and put on my clothes." Lily skips down the hall and you blink after her, sluggish brain struggling to piece together the desultory exchange.

You don't really have any plans today. Given all the effort James has put into getting to know Remus of late, maybe hanging out with Lily some isn't so odd. Maybe this is how friendship works?

Regardless, you let Lily take your elbow and guide you out of the building and across town.

…

The Order of the Phoenix. The city's leading peer support and advocacy organisation for sex workers, according to Minerva McGonagall. You finger through the pamphlets on the reception desk as she gives her overview. Decriminalisation lobbying. Safer sex practices. Client vetting checklist.

"We currently operate out of this room in the Rainbow Alliance building, but we hope to expand to do further outreach across the state."

You nod, feeling a flush down your neck. Why has Lily brought you here? Is this all she sees when she looks at you? The poster plastered walls press in around you, crushing in on your tarry lungs.

"Excuse me." You all but run out of the room and back onto the street, heading towards a food truck so you can get lost in the crowd.

Lily is too close to lose track of you, however. She puts a hand on your elbow and you brush her off, stalking down the street with your hands in your pockets.

"Sirius, wait!"

You spin around, biting your tongue, but the furious words spill forth anyway. "What the fuck are you playing at, Lily?"

"I'm only trying to help…"

"You don't know anything about me! I've barely spoken two words to you! Yet you think you can judge me? Do you think I like being a whore? You think I want to be reminded of that every day?"

Lily is up close, wincing as the shrill, castigating notes fill her ears. "No."

"No, of course not. So you can leave me the fuck alone."

"Listen, Sirius," she tries to hold your hand but you cross your arms. "I'm not trying to be judgemental or presumptuous. I just know that the Order has helped me. And I think they could help you too."

You furrow your brow. "What do you mean they helped you? You're a student teacher. And a bartender."

"And a sugar baby," she says lowly. "That's how I afford my tuition."

"Oh," you blink, feeling some of the anger and hurt shaking in your hands die down.

"You don't have to listen if you don't want to. But what have you got to lose?"

Your eyes flick back up to the colourful building and you tilt your head. Nothing, really. You might not even have a boyfriend anymore. "Okay."

You take Lily's outstretched hand.

* * *

The drone of the vacuum sets the tone for the blank haze in his mind as he flips through the _TV Guide_ in his lap. _VrmmMmm_, _vrmMMmm_, _vrMMMmm_. Hope drifts in and out of his peripheral vision. It takes longer than usual for him to notice his phone vibrating in his pocket, and when he does, trepidation trembling to the fingertips almost makes him drop it before he can check the caller. An unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Remus, it's James."

"James? Hi…"

Hope disappears down the hall, extension cord trailing in her wake.

"Did you want to talk to Sirius? He's been trying to call, but…"

Remus hasn't been answering. For two weeks he's been hiding, hoping Sirius would just forget about him so he can fade away into oblivion. Ghosting has evidently not worked though…

"Yes, fine. Put him on."

Remus feels sick. He's fucked up again. Sirius won't leave, and he'll keep getting hurt over and over, and Remus can't do anything to stop it. Guilt like heavy toffee sticks in his throat, and he chews away at the insides of his mouth until he hits copper and then some. Tries not to think of bleeding out in a purge, neat lines of penance carved into his skin, draining the chemical stardust until there's nothing left but Sirius. And eventually that craving will fade too.

_You wish_.

"Remus! I'm so glad you're out of hospital."

"Mm."

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Um…sorry I've been spam calling and you know, texting. I've just really missed you and I wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Well, I'm fine."

"Good, that's good. I wanted to tell you too, Lily's hooked me up with this lady, Minerva. She's helping me look for another job so I can drop to part time – with my current job."

"That's… that's great, Sirius."

"I'd love to see you soon."

The voices are laughing at him, and he knows he can't be selfish this time, Sirius needs to move on, he _needs_ to, no matter what. _Lie, just fucking lie_. But the words won't come unstuck and Remus can't say anything at all.

"Remus, did you hear me?"

"I don't want to," he manages.

"Why? What's wrong?" Remus doesn't deserve the tenderness in Sirius's voice.

"Doesn't matter. Look, Sirius," he forces himself to hold his voice steady. "I know I asked you not to leave me. But. Things have changed."

"No." Sirius's voice breaks. "No, I love –"

"Stop it, Sirius," Remus cuts him off and shakes his head, willpower dissolving in the sudden onslaught of hammering heartbeats and dizziness. He wonders if he could be more convincing if he believed it himself.

"I… I don't want you. You're just –" Remus grits his teeth, hating, _hating_ himself, "you're just an addiction. And I'm done."

* * *

You recoil as if he's just slapped you. The phone screen slides haltingly like a teardrop down your cheek and into your lap. _Addiction_. It echoes, hissing in your ears, and slithers around your head and weasels its way deep into your chest cavities, biting, injecting venom. Why did you trick yourself into believing that life was anything but a tangled twine ball of sick dependencies? _But_…

You press the phone back up to your ear. "What am I, Remus? If I'm an addiction, what chemical am I?"

"I… I don't know."

You wait, feeling like you've been punched in the gut, with the nothing and Tic Tacs you ate overnight sloshing around, making your acid-coated inner stomach muscles squeeze like an accordion in increasingly tighter spasms. You're not angry, you're not angry, you're _not_.

"So why the hell do you come around?"

His breath catches.

"You get food at your parents' place, and I don't give you drugs, and we don't fuck, and I don't even have fucking cable. Why do you bother?" Silence hangs. "_Why_?"

"I've got to go. Don't call me again."

The line goes dead.

…

In the months that follow, your material situation somewhat improves. You move into shared accommodation with James and Lily. You take up an administration role for a sex worker-run pole dancing studio. You still have to supplement with full-service sessions a few times a fortnight, but having regular hours sets a stability around which you can plan and save and form routine.

Lobbying with the Order of the Phoenix, you meet others with whom you share solidarity and slowly your support network grows. Bellatrix can't exploit you as much now that you've diversified your income. And she's too busy with real business to send gang members to keep tabs on you.

Not that they would have much to report back on if they did. You haven't seen Remus since that night. Haven't spoken to him since he ripped your heart out with his teeth and spat it into the trash.

Touching your ribcage, you still feel bruised. You should feel angry that he discarded you, when all you ever did was love him, give him everything you had. But you just hurt. And you understand, even if you don't know exactly why, that you must have been bad for Remus. Surely, he deserves better than you. Your best is not good enough. You touch the tattoo above your collar bone and remember the shy, soft touch of his fingers as he called you a star.

* * *

He never has liked counselling. But the art therapy isn't so bad. He splatters a canvas with red and black, the scene he sees when he closes his eyes, but somehow, it doesn't make him want to scream. It's just there. Non-threatening, and still.

_Perfect, excellent. Yes, good job._

"Terrific, Remus, you're doing great!" Sybill walks behind him and beams, before trailing to the next easel.

And in the way they always seem to, forever in an interlocked orbit, he and Sirius collide once more. This time in the Rainbow Alliance lobby. Sirius stops in his tracks, eyes widening. He's in the path of the front door, so Remus can't exactly exit without acknowledging his presence.

_Talk to him. Kiss him. Touch, touch._

"Hi."

Sirius nods, still caught like a butterfly in a web.

Remus clears his throat, struggling to find a resting place for his hands. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," Sirius chokes out. He looks around, then beckons Remus to follow him into one of the side rooms. The Order of the Phoenix, according to the sign on the door. There's a woman sitting at the front desk, who rises and hugs Sirius.

"You've bought a friend?" She asks.

"Yes, um. Would you mind if we have the room for a few minutes?"

She raises her eyebrows, gaze flitting between the two men. "I'll go grab a coffee. Did you want anything?"

"No thanks."

Remus shakes his head.

She leaves, dress swishing as she closes the door behind them.

Sirius turns towards Remus, lips pursed and hands in his pockets. "So?"

Salvia dries up from his tongue and his lips are clumsy. "I wanted to say. To say I'm sorry."

Sirius shrugs. "For what? You're allowed to break up with people."

"But," Remus snaps his wrist band, trying to stay present. "I wasn't honest with you."

"Look, it's fine," Sirius's voice is pained and he turns and walks behind the desk, busying himself with stacking pamphlets. "I should be the one who's apologising. You deserve better than me."

The amber is foregrounded in Remus's eyes, magnified and glistening. He's got something delicate and precious in his grasp and if he pulls too hard it'll snap, but if he doesn't move at all, he'll never know, so he pushes, pushes through, teeth gritted. "No, Sirius. You're better. I mean, you're the best."

Sirius laughs shortly and looks up, mouth screwed up to the side. "You said I was an addiction, Remus. Like, a drug. That's not healthy."

"I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Then why did you say it?"

He cracks, and it streams out like the tears, words cascading uncontrollably. "I – Sirius, I do love you, I'm sorry, I just didn't want you to get hurt anymore, I love you –"

* * *

You hoist yourself over the desk and pull him into a hug. _I-love-you_'s flow over your shoulder, and you tilt your head to catch them with your lips. You're wound together like a scratchy, messy bundle of wool, all clingy hands and digging nails and wild hair, and you don't ever want to let go.

Maybe you're both broken, deep inside, but you will learn and you will grow and you will be more than your trauma. The love of your chosen family is its own kind of magic.


End file.
